


All's Fair.

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grif, what are you doing?" Simmons hisses, striding over quickly. "You can't take your armour off! Not out in the open!" He glances round paranoid, sure that the blues are watching, just out of sight. "Put it back on now!"</p><p>"Dude, it's not like I'm getting naked," Grif says, rolling his eyes. "Don't get your panties in a twist!"</p><p>"Stop saying things like that!” Simmons snaps, glaring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All's Fair.

"C'mon, Grif, we only have another couple of miles and then we can head back to the base," Simmons says, trying for a cajoling tone to try and coax his teammate into obedience. He’s been reading a lot of books on how to lead effectively recently, and they advise trying to negotiate rather than out-right order when it comes to adversarial to authority personalities like Grif. So far, he’s not having much luck.

"Another couple of miles?!” His teammate splutters. "Do you even hear yourself talking dude? I was sick of this shit when we started, I can't do it anymore!"

Simmons sighs, wishing he could rub his forehead to ease the headache that’s rapidly forming, but his visor is in the way. Sometimes it really is a pain in the ass, wearing full armour all the time (especially, whispers a little voice in his head, since it isn't like they're actually fighting all that often), but it’s still not as much of a pain as dealing with Grif. "Look," he says, trying to keep his temper a little longer, "Sarge told us we need to stay out here and keep an eye out for the enemy, said he thought he'd seen signs the blue team were up to no good, so I say we keep going. He wouldn't have sent us out here for no good reason."

Grif snorts belligerently. "Uh, yes he would. It's Sarge we're talking about here. I mean, I know you have a major hard-on for the guy, but even you've gotta admit he's kind of a dick. He probably just wanted to get rid of us."

"Get rid of you, more like," Simmons retorts, cheeks burning. "And I do not have a - a -"

"Raging stiffie for senior command?" Grif supplies helpfully, and Simmons can hear the sly smirk in his voice.

"Shut the hell up," Simmons growls, balling his fists, the urge to just sock his annoying teammate in the face intensifying.

Grif notices, and retreats a couple of steps hastily. It's the fastest he's moved the whole day. Maybe he should threaten the guy more often, Simmons thinks wryly. If he actually moved at that speed, they'd be done with patrolling the border by now.

"But I’m tired,” Grif whines.

Simmons briefly contemplates shooting his teammate in the foot. Grif deserves it, no doubt about that, and it's not like Sarge would actually care. The only thing that stops him is that a foot injury would only make Grif even more painfully slow. "C'mon," he says finally, turning his back on the orange-armoured man. "We won't make it back to base before nightfall at this rate." He starts walking. He's only gone a few paces before he realises Grif isn't following. Frowning, he turns around, only to see his teammate sitting down on the grass. "What are you doing now?"

"What does it look like, dumbass?" Grif replies, fumbling with his helmet. "I'm taking a break." There's a click, a pneumatic hiss as the helmet unseals from the body of the armour, and he removes the helmet, shaking his sweat-dampened hair free. "Ah, that's better."

"Grif, what are you doing?" Simmons hisses, striding over quickly. "You can't take your armour off! Not out in the open!" He glances round paranoid, sure that the blues are watching, just out of sight. "Put it back on now!"

"Dude, it's not like I'm getting naked," Grif says, rolling his eyes. "Don't get your panties in a twist!"

"Stop saying things like that!” Simmons snaps, glaring. Another problem with the helmet is that the full force of his anger is lost on Grif.

The man grins lazily up at him, squinting slightly against the sun. “You going to make me?” There a challenge in his tone, which is familiar, present in almost all of their interactions, but there’s also something else, something he can only label as… flirtation? Simmons blinks, suddenly off-balance

And then he’s literally off-balance as Grif, the utter tool, kicks his legs out from under him, and knocks him square on his ass. The armour does _sort of_ cushion him, but the wind’s still knocked out of him. Over the sound of his wheezing, he can hear the loud sound of Grif snickering.

“What the hell did you do that for, you moron!” he says, whacking Grif across the chest. The man grunts a little at the impact, but continues laughing. He looks utterly care-free, as relaxed as if they’re just two guys chilling out at a park or something, rather than two sitting ducks just waiting to be taken out by enemy snipers.

“Well,” Grif says, once he’s finally stopped laughing, “I wasn’t going to get up, so it seemed like the only option was to get you to come down.” Grif pulls a face, as if he can tell Simmons is still frowning. “Oh come on, Mr Grumpy-pants. I know it totally violates the no-fun clause in the contract you signed with Sarge to get him to like you, but take a break for five minutes. It won’t actually kill you.”

“Unless Sarge was right, and the blues are about to attack,” Simmons points out drily. He sighs, giving in. “Fine. Five minutes. And only because you’re the one Sarge is going to blame if we get caught.”

“And that, my friend, is how this war will be won,” Grif says triumphantly.

“Huh?” Simmons’ brow knots in confusion, “Sarge finally losing his mind and taking everyone out in a fit of rage at your incompetence? Because, well, yeah, that's actually probably the most likely -”

“No,” Grif says patiently, cutting him off, “by wearing the other side down! A war of attrition.”

“Yeah, okay,” Simmons says, sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “Because that tactic has worked out well for us so far.”

“Hey, it’s working for me,” Grif says with a lazy shrug. He tilts his face back, eyes falling closed against the sun. “Sure beats actually having to fight anyone.”

Simmons sighs. “You really do have absolutely no ambition, do you?”

“Nope,” Grif says cheerfully.

They sit in silence for a couple of minutes. It’s surprisingly peaceful, if hot, with the sun beating down on them. The a/c in his suit’s been acting up since Sarge ‘fixed’ him, and Simmons finds himself uncomfortably warm. Still. He has to set an example for Grif! If the blues find them, it won’t do for both of them to be caught with their pants down. Uh. Figuratively speaking.

“Dude,” Grif says, interrupting Simmons’ train of thought. “Aren’t you roasting in that tin-can?”

“No,” Simmons says stubbornly, “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Grif says, “but just so you know, if you get heat-stroke and pass out, I’m not dragging your body back to base.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Simmons retorts, crossing his arms. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead inside the suit.

“Aw, stop being so stubborn!” Grif exclaims in annoyance, “I can tell you’re dying in there, so stop being such an ass and just take your helmet off already!”

“No way,” Simmons protests, “I’m not getting shot in the head just because it’s a little bit warm.”

“Shot in the head? Those blue guys couldn’t hit a target if it was dancing naked in front of them!” Grif says, getting to his knees and crawling towards him

“Wha- what are you doing, Grif?” Simmons asks, bewildered, and trying to butt-shuffle away.

“What does it look like, jackass?” Grif says, tackling him to the ground.

“Get off me, you freak!” Simmons squawks, trying to push the other guy off him. Unfortunately, Grif is heavy, and surprisingly strong, given that Simmons has never actually seen him in the gym, and isn’t actually sure that Grif knows red base has a gym. Despite Simmons’ squirming, he soon finds himself pinned, hands trapped above his head.

“There,” Grif says, breathless but grinning, shifting so he’s holding Grif’s wrists down with one hand, “now stop fighting me, loser.” With his free hand, he scrabbles at Simmons’ helmet, until it pops open and he can lift it off. “There we go, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He sits back, Simmons’ helmet in hand, looking unnecessarily pleased with himself.

“Shove off,” Simmons grunts, trying to sit up. “You’re squashing me, lard-ass.”

Grif doesn’t move from where he’s sat, straddling Simmons’ hips, butt uncomfortably close to Simmons’ crotch. Simmons flushes, aware suddenly that by sitting up his face has been brought very close to Grif’s.

“What if I don’t want to move?” Grif asks teasingly, breath gusting over Simmons’ face. He shuffles even closer, lifting an armoured hand to curl around the back of Simmons’ neck. “What’re you going to do then, huh?”

“Uh,” Simmons says, mind going suddenly blank. He really should be pushing Grif off, this is probably just another way the guy’s messing with him, but he’s paralysed by their proximity. He licks his lips nervously, very aware of the way Grif looks at him as he does; hungrily, like whenever they get sent food supplies and Sarge is handing out the luxury goods packages. “This is highly inappropriate.”

“Yeah,” Grif says, grinning carelessly, “it really is.”  And then he leans forward to press their lips together.

His lips are surprisingly soft, and he kisses with more confidence and skill than Simmons would have expected from Grif. How’d he get that good at this?! He couldn’t have had that much practice in the last couple of years? Unless – unless he’d been been using Donut as kissing-practice! The younger recruit was very eager to please…

“Simmons, stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking,” Grif says, breaking away.

“Huh?” Simmons says, inarticulately, blinking at him in confusion.

“I can pretty much hear you over-thinking things,” Grif explains with exaggerated patience, “stop freaking out and kiss me back properly, man.”

“Uh,” Simmons says.

Grif looks at him expectantly.

“Okay,” Simmons says.

Grif breaks into a grin, and pushes him down onto the grass, following him down to kiss him again and this time Simmons responds properly, gasping into Grif’s mouth as the other man nips at his lips. Grif’s weight presses him down, heavy on top of him. Simmons groans, eyes falling closed, as Grif rolls his hips against him,  and his own hips strain up, desperate for some friction. The armor makes it frustratingly impossible, metal clanking as they move against each other without ever making contact.

“This – this isn’t working,” Grif says breathlessly, pulling away. His eyes are bright and his cheeks flushed. Simmons is freaked out that he finds it a really good look for him.

“Yeah,” Simmons agrees, sitting up. They disentangle momentarily, then glance wordlessly at each other _. Am I really going to do this?_ Simmons thinks, _get naked out in the open like this?  Get naked with Grif of all people?!_ Apparently, the answer to all of those questions is yes.

They fumble with armour, tossing aside piece after piece, until they’re finally down to their – “Huh,” Simmons says, eyes fixed on Grif’s crotch.

The other soldier smirks and says, “Commando,” then launches himself at Simmons.

 

“Hey, do you guys see something?” Tucker asks, squinting. The sun’s reflecting off his visor, making it hard to be sure.

“Where?” Church asks, frowning. “I can’t see anything.”

“Oo! Oo!” Caboose says, bouncing up and down excitedly. “I know, I know!”

The other two turn to him with weary patience.

“Yeah, Caboose?” Tucker asks, humouring him.

“We could… use the sniper rifle!” The soldier says triumphantly, still jumping up and down.

“Huh,” Tucker looks at Caboose in mild surprise. “Actually a not-completely stupid suggestion for once.”

“Yes!!” Caboose jumps even higher in triumph.

“Hand over the rifle then Tucker,” Church orders, holding out his hand.

Tucker shrugs the rifle off his shoulder, about to hand it over.

“Oh! Oh!” Caboose stops jumping. “I want to look! I want to look! Let me!”

Tucker sighs and looks at Church. The other guy has some kind of a complex about the sniper rifle.

“Hell no,” Church snaps, snatching the rifle, “we need someone capable of explaining going on, dumbass.”

Tucker shrugs at Caboose, whose shoulders sink in forlorn acceptance.

Church lifts the rifle and steadies it, sighting down the scope. His back stiffens, and Tucker tenses.

“What is it, Church?” he asks anxiously. “Is it the reds? Are they on the move?”

Church doesn’t reply, just lowers the rifle. It’s impossible to read his expression through the visor.

Caboose sees his chance and grabs the rifle. “I want to see!” He lifts the rifle and looks.

“What is it?” Tucker demands, getting increasingly frustrated. “God’s sake, you guys!”

Caboose lowers the rifle, and speaks haltingly. “It is… the reds.”

“Really?” Tucker says, trying to squint into the distance. “Have they spotted us? Do you think they know we’re trying to sneakily get to their base and have come to stop us?”

“No… I don’t think so?” Caboose says, sounding uncertain. “I think they are… fighting each other?”

“What?!” Tucker grabs the rifle, determined to see for himself.

“…with no clothes on,” Caboose continues.

“…” Tucker looks for himself and promptly wishes he hadn’t. “Uh. Okay. That is… two very naked dudes. On each other. Dude-on-dude action. Way more dick than I wanted to see. Because I don’t want to see any dick.” He feels like he needs to emphasise the last point.

“Should we attack them?” Caboose asks. “They are distracted!”

Church and Tucker exchange an awkward glance as they try and picture how that fight would go down. They’d definitely have the advantage, but at the same time, how uncomfortable would that be? They shudder simultaneously.

“Ah, fuck it, let’s just go home,” Church says, turning around in disgust. “I can’t beat up two naked guys. That’s just weird.”

“Yeah,” Tucker agrees, “and I need to go bleach my eyes.”

They start to walk away.

Caboose looks down the hill, towards the red base and the two bodies tangled together in the grass. “You win this time, reds. You… win.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
